The zombie apocalypse genre is one of my favourite media genres – I love The Walking Dead, World War Z, Zombieland, all that stuff – so I wrote my own short zombie apocalypse micro-story. This is a little old, found it in my notes.
Darren isn’t listening. He hasn’t listened for a long time.
I’ve been clawing at the wood for hours, and now my fingers are all bloody. Or maybe they were already bloody. I don’t even know anymore.
Why won’t you let me in?
Mum’s gone now. So has Dad. I don’t really know what happened. All I know is that Mum never came home from the supermarket and Darren put an axe in the back of Dad’s head one Sunday afternoon. It wasn’t long after that that Darren stopped talking to me.
But I’ve got to try. He’s my brother, for God’s sake.
Fists pounding on the door. I can’t turn the handle, my hands are too slippery with blood. I don’t know whose blood it is.
I try screaming for him, but he won’t respond. I know he’s in there, he’s trapped, maybe, and I need to help him. I need to get him out. We both need to leave; this town isn’t safe anymore.
My throat is sore now. I’ve been wearing the same clothes for days, and I know that I stink. There’s crusty brown stuff on my shirt, and the bottoms of my jeans are ripped. I haven’t been able to change. I went out to get supplies a few days ago, and there was an attack. I only just made it home. I know he’s in there. I can hear the music playing. Angry rap stuff, like he always likes to play.
But he won’t answer me.
I fear the worst. Maybe one of those things got in. Ripped his throat out and now he’s lying in a pool of his own blood. No. I heard someone moving around inside, but now there’s nothing. Maybe he became like them. Like Dad did.
Dad went crazy pretty quickly. He’d been attacked on the way home from work – muggers, he’d said – but it didn’t take long for death to claim him. And what happened next was even weirder – he’d been officially dead for about five minutes and then it was like someone had plugged him into the mains. He went batshit. Kicking, grabbing for us, biting at me and ripping out the doctor’s intestines before Darren grabbed that fire axe and nearly severed Dad’s head from his neck.
There’s a shuffling noise, and I know Darren’s by the door. I can smell something. He’s got food. I’m so hungry – I haven’t eaten anything for a day and a half. It smells like meat. My stomach growls.
I slap my palm against the door, hands slick with red stuff, and I try the knob again, but I still can’t turn it. It’s only when I give up and let it go that it starts to move, and there’s a click as the door starts to open, and I almost throw myself inside.
He looks like death.
Darren stands in the doorway, his face white as a sheet. There’s dried blood matted in his hair, and his clothes are dirty and torn. The rap music blares, disorientating me for a second, but not before I notice the axe raised in his hand.
“I’m sorry, sis,” he finally chokes out, before he buries it in my skull.